She never forgot that time,--never once.
Later in the evening you would see an old man coming along, close by the
wall, with his head down,--a very dark man, with gray, thin hair,--Joe
Yare, Lois's old father. No one spoke to him,--people always were
looking away as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the
steps when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr. Yare," very
formally, and go away presently. It hurt Lois more than anything else
they could have done. But she bustled about noisily, so that he would
not notice it. If they saw the marks of the ill life he had lived on his
old face, she did not; his sad, uncertain eyes may have been dishonest
to them, but they were nothing but kind to the misshapen little soul
that he kissed so warmly with a "Why, Lo, my little girl!" Nobody else
in the world ever called her by a pet name.
Sometimes he was gloomy and silent, but generally he told her of all
that had happened in the mill, particularly any little word of notice or
praise he might have received, watching her anxiously until she laughed
at it, and then rubbing his hands cheerfully. He need not have doubted
Lois's faith in him. Whatever the rest did, she believed in him; she
always had believed in him, through all the dark, dark years, when he
was at home, and in the penitentiary.
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